


nothing a man won't do

by elumish



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Discussion of Eating Disorder, Gen, Kidnapping, Teenage Q
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-10-30 21:44:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10885515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elumish/pseuds/elumish
Summary: It starts with a kidnapping.An arm around his neck, a hand against his mouth, and a prick to his neck, and then sliding, smearing like paint on a palette, and he’s gone.





	1. Chapter 1

It starts with a kidnapping.

An arm around his neck, a hand against his mouth, and a prick to his neck, and then sliding, smearing like paint on a palette, and he’s gone.

He wakes up fuzzy-mouthed and bleary chained to a stone wall, hands in shackles behind his back, feet shackled to the floor, stripped down to his boxers. It’s a smart move on the side of the kidnappers; he’s armed virtually everywhere else, but he’s not too fond of strapping potential explosives to his dick. He thinks they even combed through his hair to make sure he wasn’t keeping anything there.

It’s a good sign, too; naked would imply a much more sexual threat than boxers do. Taking his clothing was pragmatism, not intimidation.

Either that, or he’s really bad at reading the signs. Always a possibility.

He shifts his wrists, trying to find either a position where he can slip his hands through or something on the ground that he can use to pick the shackles. He finds neither, and he’s hesitant to dislocate his thumb, so he lets that go for the moment. Might as well not strain his shoulder if he doesn’t need to.

His feet are in a similar situation, and he has no way to get the shackles off without his hands, so he ignore them for the moment. Struggling will only cut up his ankles, which will put him at greater risk if he needs to move quickly to get out.

He’s not going to be able to get himself out of this without some change in the status quo, so he resigns himself to that and starts looking around to see what he can figure out about where he’s being kept, at least as much as he can without his glasses. It’s a small room, all stone, with a metal door just over one person wide. There are no windows, so he has no idea what floor he’s on. There’s a chill, though, and the faintest smell of mildew.

Not somewhere he thinks he would find in London, but he doesn’t know how much time has passed, so he could be out of Britain for all he knows.

He damn well hopes not, but it would be the smart move, if they could have gotten him out without attracting attention. MI6’s reach is far, but the net is looser outside of the United Kingdom, and there are holes despite their best efforts.

And if he’s on the continent, there might be a need for planes once he’s been rescued, and really, he’d rather not.

Somewhere in the distance, there is an explosion, and Q smiles.

\--

Bond finds Q shackled to the floor and the wall, looking as young as Bond has ever seen him. He knows that, in theory, Q is in his twenties, though Bond has never gotten an exact age, but right now he looks at least a decade younger.

“Quartermaster,” he says, keeping his voice casual even as he crouches down to examine the shackles. They’re solid and tight. They’re going to be hard to get off without a key. Damn.

Q nods at him. “Bond.” His voice is a little bit slower than usual, though just as dry, his pupils blown wide. Some sort of drug, then, one that’s not entirely out of his system. “I appreciate the rescue.”

Bond keeps his focus on examining the chains, which are not ideal but should be a little easier to get through than the shackles. “I’m going to need to shoot these,” he tells Q. “There may be ricochet, so you’ll need to keep your face tucked into my chest so it doesn’t cut you.”

Q blinks at him for a second, wide-eyed and so so young, and then he asks, nonsensically, “Do you have your pen?”

“Now isn’t really the time to be taking notes,” Bond reminds him. He’s pretty sure he killed everyone in the facility, but he really would like to get Q out of here as soon as possible.

Q shakes his head. “It has a plasma cutter in it.” Bond stares at him, and Q stares back defensively. “It’s a little one,” he says petulantly. “But it should be easier than a gun. And no ricochet.”

Bond pulls out the pen Q gave him, which he’s been carrying around because he tends to keep what Q gives him just so he has a weapon or two extra if he needs one, and sure enough, when he presses the discreet little button Q indicates, a tiny plasma cutter pops out. “I keep this in my _pocket_ ,” he says, horrified despite himself.

Q makes a disgruntled face. “It was in the manual.”

“I don’t read the manuals.”

“Well that’s not my fault, is it?”

Bond knows he won’t win this argument, and that he shouldn’t be bickering with Q anyway, so he moves the pen to the chain and starts cutting. He doesn’t trust his precision on the shackles, so for the moment he leaves the shackles on and focuses on getting Q detached from the floor and then the wall. He’ll carry his Quartermaster. He’s light.

He gets Q off the ground, but he’s unsteady even beyond what could be explained by the shackles, so Bond says, “I’m going to pick you up now.” Q makes an unhappy noise but doesn’t protest, so Bond levers him over his shoulder. Q makes an even unhappier noise, but Bond is more focused on just now damn light he is. “What are you, six stone?”

“Seven,” Q tells him belligerently, if a bit weakly. “I’m seven stone, thank you very much. This is an uncomfortable and frankly nauseating position to be in.”

“Sorry,” Bond tells him, starting down the hallway. Q’s shackles are banging against him, but he ignores that, using one hand to keep Q steady and the other on his gun. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind next time I have to rescue someone.”

Q is silent for a moment—another two hallways—before asking, “How’d you find me?”

Bond shakes his head. “Not my department. They gave me the location, and I got you.”

Q groans, and Bond shifts his hold to try to make him a little more secure so he’s not sick on Bond.

“007,” R says in his ear, “there’s a car outside.”

She sounds so uncertain that Bond says, “R, please repeat.”

He hears her breath, like she’s shoring herself up, then she says, “There’s a car outside your location. It’s your exfil.”

“One of ours?”

“It’s your exfil, 007, just get in it.”

That’s suitably ominous, but Bond doesn’t have another choice, given that when he gets outside there is a sleek black car in front of the entrance. Standing in front of it, Blackberry in hand, is a woman in a skirt suit who immediately, disconcertingly, reminds him of Eve.

“007,” she says, and Q goes rigid on his shoulder. “Any injuries?”

“He has shackles I couldn’t get off, so I don’t know how much damage is underneath them. He was also drugged with something, and I don’t think it’s out of his system yet. I think he’s dehydrated, too.”

“It would help if you would put me upright,” Q grouses, and Bond pulls him upright, wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him standing. “Thank you, 007.”

The woman’s eyes focus on Q, so absolutely that it almost looks as though she’s forgotten Bond is there. Which is a feeling he’s not familiar with. Not that Q doesn’t have his own presence, but he’s no Double-O. “He apologizes,” she says to Q, sounding actually apologetic, “but there was a crisis that he was unable to extract himself from.”

Q groans. “He wouldn’t get his hands dirty for this.”

“We are both aware that that is untrue.”

Q sways, and Bond decides, enough with this nonsensical conversation, and picks him up in his arms, ignoring Q’s squirms. “Okay, let’s go. I want to get you to Medical.”

“Is that how we get you to Medical?” Q asks, glowering up at him from his spot in Bond’s arms.

Bond carries him over to the car, letting the woman open the door so he can set Q inside. As soon as he’s down, Q squirms away from him, his shackles clanking together. Then Bond walks around to the other side of the car, getting in next to Q. The woman sits in the seat across from them, typing something on her Blackberry.

When the car starts moving, the woman pulls out a bottle of water and hands it to Q, who opens it with his teeth and starts drinking.

“Not too fast,” Bond tells him when he doesn’t come up for air for a full twenty seconds.

Q stops drinking long enough to bare his teeth at Bond and snap, “Fuck off.”

“You’re going to make yourself sick.”

Q takes another drink, then puts the bottle down in his lap, breathing audibly. “I know how to drink water, Bond, thank you.”

The woman looks up at Q, saying, “He wants me to tell you that you have an alternative to MI6’s medical facility.”

Q shakes his head. “If I take him up on that he’ll never let me leave, so no, thanks. I’ll take my chances with MI6.” He turns his head to peer out the window. “Where are we, anyway?”

“Northeast Wales,” the woman provides. “Just outside Ysceifiog in Flintshire.”

Q blinks at her, twice, then sets his head against the door frame. “I’m going to sleep. Wake me up when we get back.” And then, to all appearances, he falls asleep.

Bond waits a while, mostly to make sure he’s sleeping without problem, then asks, “Who do you work for?”

The woman looks up from her Blackberry, gives him one of the drollest look he’s ever seen, then goes back to typing away.

“There are more enjoyable ways we can pass the time on this drive than you ignoring me.”

This time she only lifts her eyes to focus on him. “Doubtful.” And then she goes back to typing.

Which, ouch. He hasn’t been shut down that hard by a woman in a long time. Bond opens his mouth to say something else, then closes it when Q twitches and slumps over sideways, against Bond’s arm. Bond eases his arm out from under Q, wrapping it around his shoulder to keep him steady. He had known Q looked young, but had never realized quite how young until this mission. Glasses-free, eyes wide and emotive in his pale face, he looks more like a teenager than a full-blown MI6 employee, much less the Quartermaster.

It makes Bond want to take care of him above and beyond the call of duty. Which is dangerous, he knows, but it’s more dangerous to anyone else who tries to hurt Q. And Bond is okay with that.

\--

Q wakes up to pressure on his finger and Anthea’s voice next to him, saying something low and too quick to be parsed by his sleep-slow brain. He leans towards her, mumbling, “Thea?”

Her fingers brush a piece of hair out of his face, calluses rasping against his skin. Gun calluses. “We’re at MI6, Q.” He stiffens a little, trying to open his eyes, and she pushes him back down against the seat. “Shh. Medical is coming out to get you. Your hands and feet are both shackled, and you were drugged with an unknown substance.”

Q nods, leaning his head forward to touch her shoulder with it. “Heart rate?” he asks. The pressure on his finger is a mobile heart rate monitor, he knows, now that he’s thinking about it.

“Sixty-five. Low for you, but not bad.” She pulls away from him, tilting his head back against the seat. “Don’t leave Medical early, Q. He’ll be in touch.”

Q sighs, blinking at her. She’s blurry. He needs his glasses. “I know.”

Medical apparently arrives, because she turns and starts giving them instructions in that low, hard, neutral voice of hers. He likes that voice. He practices that voice at the mirror, sometimes.

He is put on a gurney, which is frankly demeaning, with a full four people four Medical leaning over him and asking overlapping questions that he doesn’t know how they except him to answer because they’re all talking over each other and his eyesight isn’t good enough to lip read any of them.

Bond is on one side of him, answering some of the questions, which is presumptuous, if helpful. At one point Bond puts a hand to Q’s forehead, and Q squirms away, keeling like he’s still a child trying to get Mummy to stop kissing his forehead in public.

“No need to be condescending,” he snaps at Bond, who grins at him.

“Just making sure you’re not feverish,” Bond tells him, resettling his hand just to be contrary. “And that you don’t try to run away. That woman—Anthea, is it—seemed to think you’re planning on escaping the minute any of us turn our back.”

Q ignores the blatant fishing to say, “I will stay in Medical precisely as long as necessary.”

Bond snorts. “Sure. That’s what I do, too.”

“When you are still bleeding, it is necessary for you to remain in Medical, as I’m sure the Medical staff would be happy to remind you.” They get in to Medical, and the doctors shoo Bond away with threats of a check-up.

Q submits willingly to their machinations, mostly because fighting it will get him sedated. And he really does need to be checked out, because whatever drugs are still in his system are making him slow, slower than he needs to be to do his job.

He’s no big fan of MI6 Medical, but compared to the alternative he at least has some power here. He can leave if he needs to.

They get him rehydrated, pump some vitamins in him because he’s trapped there and they can, because they’re convinced he’s going to die of scurvy or something equally ridiculous. He does eat food, despite what they think. Occasionally. He even eats primarily vegetables, to go along with his coffee and sugar. Meat has always seemed like too much work, he replaces the protein with protein shakes, which are atrocious affronts to humanity but require no chewing and so little effort.

He finally escapes from Medical when they start talking about whether or not to keep him overnight, heading first to his locker to grab a change of clothes so he doesn’t have to walk around in Medical scrubs. He’s had to dip into his spare clothing since he last replaced them, so he only has trousers and a sweater three sizes too big, which make him look even younger than actually is. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than scrubs.

He makes it to Q Branch after that, grabbing a bottle of water out of the kitchen before heading over to his desk. His actual sitting desk, because his ankles hurt—he refused painkillers, because he’s not developing an addiction, thank you very much, he knows better—and he pulls up information on all ongoing missions. None of which are doing anything, because 001 and 006 are on planes, 005 and 008 are sleeping, and the rest are off-mission at the moment.

He’s pulling up the latest gun specs when a hand falls on his shoulder and he almost elbows someone in the face.

“Good reflexes,” Bond says behind him, and Q resists the urge to swear at him. “You shouldn’t be here, though. You know you’re on mandatory rest until at least tomorrow.”

“Technically,” Q tells him, “nobody officially informed me of that.”

Bond rotates Q’s chair around so he has to look at him, holding him in place with a firm hand like the overbearing asshole he is. “You know the protocol. And technically, I just did. Go home, Q. Get some rest.”

Q rolls his eyes at him. “Hypocrite.”

“You look like an orphaned twelve-year-old from a Dickens novel.”

“I’m surprised at the class of that reference.”

“I did attend Eton, you know.”

Q considers continuing the banter, but he’s tired, and his mind really isn’t up to it, so he just uses his feet to try to push back around towards his computer, but Bond’s hands are stronger than his feet, so he doesn’t go anywhere. Instead, Bond just leans further over him, looming.

Q gives him a flat look. “Let go.”

“You’re going home if I have to carry you there myself.”

“Why do you care so damn much?”

“M’s orders.”

Fantastic. “Go away.”

“I will pick you up and carry you out of here, don’t think I won’t. Do you want to go through that in front of your minions? Because I’m perfectly willing to go through with it.”

He would, too, damn it. So Q stands, closing out of the programs on his computer and then heading towards the exit with aplomb. Bond trails after him like a large, overbearing puppy dog wolf assassin.

Bond follows him all the way out of the building, keeping pace no matter how much Q lengthens his stride and tries to out-walk him. His ankles are throbbing, and his wrists, and his head, and as long as he doesn’t go home he can’t have visitors, but apparently staying in MI6 isn’t an option, so dealing with overbearing relatives it is.

Finally, fed up because if he has to deal with overbearing relatives he doesn’t want to also have to deal with overbearing colleagues, Q turns, demanding, “Are you planning on following me all the way home?”

Bond just looks at him. “Yes.”

“You’re not getting into my apartment.”

“I’m sure I can.”

“I’m sure you can’t.”

Bond smirks at him. “Is that a test?”

Q can’t deal with this right now. “If you enter my apartment without my permission, you will be set on fire, and then I will shoot you myself.”

Bond is silent for a moment, then asks, “Who was that woman before?”

“An acquaintance,” Q answers tersely.

Bond’s eyebrows go up suggestively. “An acquaintance? You seemed rather close, for acquaintances.”

Q rolls his eyes. “Just because you are unable to get within five feet of a person without trying to fuck them doesn’t mean we all have that same problem. She’s an acquaintance, and her identity is well above your security clearance, so I suggest you stop digging unless you want to have a number of very unpleasant conversations in your future. You did your job, 007, and I appreciate the rescue, but go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what this is or where it's going. I'm just writing a bunch of crossover stories now, I guess. Timeline-wise, this is...somewhere. I don't know. I'm ignoring Spectre because I may or may not have actually seen it, and Sherlock is just kind of wherever. I won't have Mary because I don't want to.


	2. Chapter 2

When no security guards usher Q away from the doors the next morning, he figures his exile is over. He deposits a new set of clothing in his locker, because inevitably he’ll need it within the next week or so, then heads to the Q branch kitchen to drown himself in Earl Grey.

There are a few minions in the kitchen, one of whom offers him an awkward, “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

That’s practically a hug, from lower level Q branch techs—who are mostly terrified of him, except for those who try to shield him from “adult” things like sex, though they don’t have much of a problem with him watching people being shot.

Ah, Christian morality. In this, at least, he generally agrees with his brothers.

He finishes his first cup of tea standing in the kitchen, then makes a second and heads out to the main part of Q branch. R is directing 001 through an assassination when Q walks in, and she nods to him but keeps her eyes on the screen. He heads over to her, standing off to the side so he’s not looming over her shoulder.

Once the shot has been taken and 001 is heading towards his exfil position, R mutes her microphone, saying, “You look better.”

“Spying on me?”

She snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself. I always watch MI6 footage from when I’m not here.” She sighs. “It’d be better if you don’t get yourself kidnapped again. Wahid almost started crying when he heard.”

Q squeezes the bridge of his nose until the urge to throw his tea fades. “Wahid thinks I’m twelve.”

“All members of MI6 have an appropriate level of care and respect for their quartermaster. And I’m serious, Q. I really have no interest in your job, and I’d hate to have to replace you. I’ve just managed to train you to my ideal specifications.”

“You’d be the first to think so.”

She pats his arm, then turns back to his computer. “You’ll make some friends, Quartermaster. You’re young, yet.”

“Fuck you,” he tells her cheerfully, then heads off to see what 006 is doing.

\--

Lara comes over two hours later with a fresh mug of tea and a pastry, leaning on the side of his desk. “Did you hear the news?”

Q adjusts the bandage on his wrist, then says, “Likely not, unless it’s that 004 has the flu, in which case, yes, I am aware.”

“No, not that.” She shifts, crossing her legs. She has a tendency to play at flirtatious body language, though she never actually flirts aloud with him. She’s not cleared to know his real age—R is the only one in Q branch who is—but most of them have their theories about how old he is, and it makes a lot of them less willing to flirt with him. Which he doesn’t particularly mind. “Apparently we’re having a surprise inspection. MI6, I mean. I’m surprised you weren’t called in to M’s office for it.”

“M is well aware that I refuse to meet any higher-ups on principle.”

“I guess if M parades him through here you won’t really have a choice.”

“I’m perfectly capable of making sure I’m in the bathroom when that happens.”

“I’d rather you didn’t do that,” M says from the doorway, and Q bites back a curse. This is really not the best time for a surprise inspection, given that he looks, at least based on his quick glance in the mirror, like a slightly traumatized fourteen-year-old. He looks wounded. It’s a bad look on him. “Q, this is Mycroft Holmes, of the British government. He would like to speak with you as a part of his inspection of our organization.”

Fuck. He had been suspicious when nobody had stopped by, but this is a whole other level of overbearing. But they have a deal, and as long as Mycroft honors it Q won’t make a fuss.

So he stands, heading over to where Mycroft is standing next to M. He offers him a hand to shake. “Mr. Holmes. Care to share what part of the British government you are affiliated with?”

The corner of Mycroft’s lip twitches, not noticeable unless you know what you’re looking for, and he shakes Q’s hand firmly. But he doesn’t let go of Q’s hand, instead using his other hand to push Q’s sleeve up and look at the bandage. “You’re injured.”

“Technical difficulties,” Q says glibly.

Mycroft’s eyebrow goes up, and he looks over at M. “I’d think you’d take better care of your quartermaster. He does run what is arguably the most important division of MI6.”

M hesitates, then says, “Q was kidnapped yesterday. It has been dealt with.”

“I see,” Mycroft says coolly, then finally releases Q’s hand and wrist. “I will have to speak with your quartermaster. Alone.”

M sends a dismayed look in Q’s direction; Q has made no qualms about his unwillingness to talk to bureaucrats. He’s pretty sure he threatened to permanently turn off all electronics of the next bureaucrat he had to schmooze with. “Q is very busy.”

Q smiles at Mycroft. “Yes, I am.”

“I’m sure he has time for me. After all, Q branch cannot be so reliant on any one person that they cannot spare him for ten minutes.”

M hesitates, then asks, “Q, are there any active missions that they need you on?”

Q runs through the schedule in his head, then says, “Not until 1330, unless an emergency comes up. R has 005, and 001 should be exfiled by now.”

“Then you can spare Mr. Holmes the time.”

He presses his lips together, then says “Very well. Mr. Holmes, please, follow me to my office.”

Mycroft follows him all the way to the office, both of them ignoring the stares from his minions. There will be talk, he knows it. Though there would be talk from the kidnapping alone, so he supposes he can’t spare himself that anyway.

Mycroft eases the door shut behind him once they’re in Q’s office, then hits the hidden button to frost the glass. Q leans against his desk, finally letting himself slump. “What the hell are you doing here, Mycroft?”

“Am I not allowed to check up on you?”

“Not here.”

Mycroft paces towards him, looking uncharacteristically agitated, then grabs Q’s hand and slides his sleeve up again, touching the bandages. “I apologize for being unable to be there for you yesterday.”

Q suffers the hovering with ill-grace, rolling his eyes at Mycroft. “I was fine. I _am_ fine. These are abrasions because of the shackles, nothing worse. I barely bled. Same with my ankles.”

“Did you take anything for the pain?”

Q looks up at the ceiling. “I’m not going for an opium addiction. One is enough for the family.”

“That’s not why I was asking.” Mycroft makes a frustrated noise. “And you’re too thin.”

“What are you, Mother?”

“I wouldn’t need to be if you would take her calls.” Mycroft lets go, taking a step back. Giving them both space. “Come to dinner tonight.”

Q jams his hands in his pockets. “I’m busy.”

“I can change that.”

“Seriously, My? Threatening to change the mission schedule of MI6 just to suit your own wishes?”

Mycroft levels a stare at him, but he’s smiling a little, just the barest hint of something genuinely happy on the corner of his lips. Q isn’t sure why. He hasn’t made Mycroft happy in years. “I’ve done worse to ensure the wellbeing of my family.”

Q certainly knows that well enough. “Speaking of which, didn’t you ever teach him better than to pull the trigger himself? I know I certainly learned that well enough from you.”

The smile drops away, and Q would curse himself if he thought he had anything to do with making it appear in the first place. “I made certain one of you learned it, because it was already too late for him.” Mycroft checks his watch, an unnecessary gesture that he wouldn’t usually make in front of Q because they both know they can all keep time in their head as well as any commercially-sold watch. He spends too long playing at being normal, Q thinks. “I’ve taken enough of your time, I think. If you won’t dine with me tonight, then I expect to see you for dinner on Saturday, when I know you have off.” He twitches his suit a millimeter straighter. “Goodbye, brother mine. See you again soon.”

\--

“So,” Bond says, and Q throws a pen at him because he’s in a terrible mood. Bond catches it, the bastard, and takes a few steps into the office. “Mycroft Holmes?”

“Yes, Bond.”

“Does he have anything to have to do to with the woman from the car?”

“That’s need-to-know,” Q says, because he makes a habit not to lie to MI6 agents. They’re too good of lie detectors, and he know that, no matter how good he is, there are biological tells he will never be able to hide.

“I need to know,” Bond says, smiling beatifically. He looks like a fucking angel. Sometimes Q hates him.

“No,” Q says, “you don’t. Get out of my office.”

“I don’t think I will.”

Q hates him, then, but he also knows Sherlock Holmes and so knows that arguing with him will be an exercise in frustration, so he just presses the alarm he has to alert Security that there, and then he goes back to work, because he doesn’t have time to waste on Bond’s antics.

Three minutes later, two men from Security show up to politely but firmly tell Bond to get the hell out of Q’s office. And then Q returns to actually focusing on work, which lasts all of about ten minutes before he remembers how much he hates working alone in his office with no easy way of tracking everything that’s going on in Q branch.

With a sigh, he gets to his feet, determined to actually bloody finish something, and get more tea. Perhaps not in that order.

\--

“Is it true that Mycroft Holmes seduced you in your office?”

Q chokes on his tea, barely managing to avoid spitting it out all over his computer. He turns to look at R once he has his breathing back under control, rasping, “What are you on about?”

“Betting pool has eight-to-one odds that Holmes seduced you during the private meeting in your office.”

That makes no more sense than the first time she said it. “Sodding hell, why?”

She smirks at him. “Well, for one thing, he was damn determined to talk to you, and walked out of there like he was on the fucking clouds. If you know what you’re looking for, at least.”

Q rubs the bridge of his nose, considering whether drowning himself in his tea would make all of this go away. Probably not. They would just resuscitate him, and then he’d be stuck back in Medical, and what a mess that’d be. “How many people bet on us fucking in the five minutes we were in my office?”

“I think we’re up to twenty at this point.” Her smile grows. “Then there’s the running pool on how you’d take it, but everyone knows you wouldn’t submit to anyone, so people are pretty sure that means Holmes is one of those people who gets off on being bossed around. You know, putting all away at the door, calling someone else sir for a change. Maybe a little disciplinary spanking.”

“Oh my God,” Q says, and he can hear the horror in his voice. R laughs at him. “Stop. Please. I don’t want to think about Mycroft have sex.”

He realizes his mistake as soon as her eyes widen, and she gleefully says, “Mycroft? Are you on a first name basis with him now?”

“I don’t know if I could call him Holmes with the level of detail you’re using to describe his imagined sex-life.”

She stares at him for a moment, then snorts. “Just be safe. It wouldn’t do to have the Quartermaster of MI6 taken out by an STD.”

“I’m not having sex with Mycroft Holmes,” Q says plaintively, taking a sip of his tea so she can’t see the blush that is no doubt alighting his cheeks at the moment. “Please be professional, R.”

R grins at him. “We both watch people fuck for a living. Don’t you think this is professional?”

“I don’t watch that for a living; it’s incidental.” Q shudders. “I’m pulling rank and telling you this conversation is over. If nothing else, pretend you’re Wahid and treat me like I’m twelve.”

She salutes him with her own mug of tea. “Yes, sir.”


	3. Chapter 3

Q gets to Mycroft’s house at precisely eight PM, knocking twice with the brass knocker because he, at least, has manners, and has no desire to be stopped by one of the regular security patrols to be asked why he’s picking the lock of arguably the most important man in Britain.

His doorman opens the door, taking Q’s coat but not asking about his briefcase. Good instincts. Unsurprising, given his employer.

Q knows where the dining room, so he heads there, hoping that Anthea will be there. She comes over for some of these bizarre dinners Mycroft likes to force on him, and it saves him from having an hour-plus silent dinner where Mycroft clearly wants desperately to be checking his Blackberry but won’t bring himself to be so rude, and Q would rather be eating Indian takeout back at his apartment.

Who he runs into, though, is a man, short, white, in a brown jacket over a pale blue shirt. Q nods at him. “John Watson.”

Watson stares at him for a second, then asks, “How do you know who I am?”

“Sherlock Holmes cares about three people. Two of them are male, and you’re not DI Lestrade. Hence, John Watson.”

Watson snorts. “Are you next going to ask me if I served in Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Q sticks his free hand in his pocket. “Captain John Hamish Watson, Royal Army Medical Corps, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Discharged after receiving a gunshot wound to the left shoulder in Afghanistan. You read medicine at King’s College, London, with training as a surgeon. Divorced, wife has primary custody of your child. You currently live with Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street. Need me to go on?”

There’s a gratifying moment of Watson gaping at him, and then he demands, “You didn’t figure that out from the cut of my shirt or the shine of my shoes or something equally implausible, did you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dr. Watson. Who do you think vetted you for Mycroft?”

“I was thinking Mycroft did it, actually, which I guess in hindsight was a bit idealistic of me. After all, the British government doesn’t have time to do his own legwork. How old are you, anyway? Eighteen?”

Q sets his briefcase down next to his spot at the table, glancing around to see if he can spot Mycroft or anyone else. “Not quite.” There’s no way Sherlock is far from Watson, not given their history, and Mycroft tends not to leave him alone long when he’s in the house, so they’re probably together.

Watson makes a startled noise. Apparently living with Sherlock hadn’t trained him out of all unnecessary showings of emotion. Good to know. “Then how old were when he—”

“Frankly,” Q interrupts, adjusting the position of his briefcase by a couple millimeters so he doesn’t need to look at Watson and see the pity on his face, “the fact that he was still alive was more surprising than that he had killed himself in the first place.”

“They didn’t tell you?”

“There was no reason to. Sherlock had no reason to be in contact with me in the first place, and never was, so three more years of no contact changed very little.” There are footsteps, and Q looks up to see Mycroft and Sherlock standing in the doorway, looking at the two of them. “Hello.”

Mycroft stays standing in the doorway, staring at him, but Sherlock stalks over to him, grabbing his wrist. “You’re injured.”

Q rolls his eyes. “Well spotted, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turns to glare at Mycroft. “I see you’re doing a splendid job.”

Q jerks his arm away from Sherlock, scowling at him. “When will you learn to stop blaming all the ills of the world on Mycroft?” He shoves his hands back in his pockets. “I met your roommate. Lovely man, still impressed by who we are. I’m amazed you haven’t drained that out of him.”

“That’s inappropriate,” Watson snaps, because he’s the good man in the room. “Sherlock’s a good person.”

It takes a second of using all of the breathing techniques Q has learned to keep from losing his head at Double-Os and the lot, and then Q makes himself smile at Watson. “My apologies, Dr. Watson, for you being forced into the Holmes family dinner. Hopefully, this will be as quick and painless as possible.”

The hard anger on Watson’s face eases, then fades entirely. It’s not surprising he would be able to forgive easily, given that he manages to live with Sherlock and not commit homicide. “I’m surprised to meet you, especially considering that you weren’t at Christmas.”

“The Christmas where you drugged my family so Sherlock could go kill a man? I don’t celebrate holidays, and Mummy can’t induce me to go home for anything shy of a funeral.”

“I didn’t see you at Sherlock’s funeral.”

Sherlock flinches at that, hunching his shoulders and turning back a little towards Mycroft, like he wants Mycroft’s protection. He’s too proud to admit it. They both are. What a family they have.

“Just because you didn’t see me,” Q says, mostly to distract Watson from seeing Sherlock’s pain, “doesn’t mean I wasn’t there. Is Anthea here, Mycroft?”

Mycroft seems to finally break out of his stupor, taking a couple of steps out into the room. “Unfortunately, she had other plans, so I invited Sherlock and Dr. Watson to dinner instead. We are having a mushroom wellington, with a side of roasted aubergines. Please sit, all of you. The food will be out in just a moment.”

“Would you like me to help?” Watson asks, and Mycroft smiles.

“It is well in hand,” Mycroft tells him, “but thank you.”

He heads back into the kitchen, and they all sit, Watson because he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself; Sherlock because he’s clearly absurdly reluctant to leave Watson alone, like a mother fretting over her duckling; and Q because he dislikes anyone being closer to his briefcase than he is. He knows he’s paranoid, perhaps, especially given that he was the one who vetted Dr. Watson, and he’s the best in the world, but all of his concerns have been hard earned, and he would rather be paranoid than careless.

“So,” Watson says after a moment of silence, “I didn’t know Sherlock had another brother.”

“Sherlock doesn’t care about me,” Q informs him, “and has even less interest in me. As the accident child, I was much too young to pique his interest, and once it became clear that I was equally intelligent, Sherlock was already far enough into his drug addiction to take notice.”

Sherlock flinches at that, which Q finds a bit absurd, considering that it’s all the truth, and kinder than what Sherlock has said to him on the same subject in the past. Watson’s expression, on the other hand, only grows darker. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

Perhaps Watson has learned less about Sherlock than Q had assumed, or forgot some of what he did learn while Sherlock was playing dead. “When have you ever known Sherlock to care about anything that doesn’t hold his interest, much less a young child? My self-worth doesn’t rely on Sherlock’s approval, Dr. Watson, so try not to pity me for not having it.”

Mycroft carries out food while Watson is apparently still trying to figure out how to respond to that, first setting out a large mushroom wellington and then returning to the kitchen to fetch the roasted aubergines. Q appreciates that Mycroft always makes only vegetarian food when Q is over, though it tends to skew fancier than Q prefers; Q has tried eating meat at various times over the years since he stopped eating it, and it always makes him a tad ill.

He’s not a pure vegetarian—he’ll eat things made with chicken stock or beef stock. He has no particular issue with meat. He just stopped eating at some point, around when he was emancipated, and restarting has always seemed more work than he is willing to do.

Once it’s all out on the table, Mycroft having served everybody because he secretly loves playing house, serving people tea and cooking them food. His true skill in that regard lies in baking, because it’s all measurements and specificity and everything that Holmeses are so good at, but for many reasons, he does it only occasionally.

Once they’ve all started eating, Watson turns to Q. “Are you in school, then?”

Sherlock snorts, but Q just shakes his head, saying, “I received my Bachelor’s from Imperial College London.”

Watson chokes on a piece of aubergine. “Christ. Already?”

“I did so several years ago.” Q looks down at his plate, cutting a precise piece of wellington. “People are rather reluctant to hire a teenager without a degree. Going to uni was practical.”

“Practical.”

“Yes.” He takes a bite of wellington, chews, swallows. Nobody says anything. Well, he supposes he will have to carry the conversation for the moment. “I read engineering—mechanical and electrical. I studied chemical engineering as well, though I did not receive a degree in it.”

“So what do you do now?”

“Computer programming, primarily.”

Mycroft, knowing that that is dangerous territory because John Watson does not have the security clearance to be briefed on Q’s occupation, says, “It is nice to have the three of you over for a meal. Between our respective schedules, I was uncertain if we would ever all have the chance to dine together.”

Watson’s eyes flick to Sherlock before focusing on Mycroft, and he says, “I didn’t think I had turned down any other invitations.”

“I did,” Sherlock says, as though everyone in the room hadn’t been able to figure that out. “We’re only here because Mycroft went directly to you.”

“Which I should have done in the first place,” Mycroft says, sounding a bit amused at his own failure. “I learned my lesson.”

“You’re getting slow, brother.” Sherlock smirks at him. “Perhaps you are losing your edge in your old age.”

“Perhaps your growing sentimentality made me believe you were going soft.”

Sherlock’s smirk turns to a sneer. “I would hardly call it sentimentality. Simply because I know people who aren’t my minions, it doesn’t mean I have become…attached.”

One of Mycroft’s eyebrows goes up. “You must be slipping if you think I will believe that lie.” He cuts a precise piece of aubergine, eating it. “You spend approximately fifty-seven percent of your time in John Watson’s company watching him, and yet you intend for me to believe that you are not attached.”

“John is different.”

“Is he now?”

“Hey,” Watson says. “Don’t pretend whatever your deal is is about me.”

Mycroft inclines his head towards Watson. “My apologies. I hope you are all enjoying your food. I find baking a worthwhile technical pursuit.”

“Cake?” Sherlock asks snidely.

Just like that, any happiness that had been on Mycroft’s face drops away, and Q’s temper snaps. “Piss off, Sherlock. Just because you have the physique of a drug addict doesn’t mean we all must.”

Sherlock turns a wide-eyed look on him, all innocence and hurt feelings. “I—”

“Are continuing your attempt to reinforce an eating disorder, just for your own entertainment, and your habit of trying to figure out the most effective ways to hurt Mycroft. If you’re determined to use your skill set to hurt people, perhaps target it at those who actually deserve it.” Q takes a breath, digging his fingers into his legs in an attempt to calm himself down. Outbursts like that are risky and undignified, and he can already see Mycroft’s discomfort at the emotion he is showing. He knows speaking to Sherlock again won’t do any good, so he turns his attention to Watson, who is staring at him, jaw set. “I am aware that your priority is Sherlock, but there is a line between support and enabling, and when it comes to Mycroft you appear to fall in the second camp.”

“If you think I can control what Sherlock says or does—”

“If you think you can’t, you’re too stupid to be worthy of Sherlock’s company.” Q touches the bridge of his nose, resisting the urge to squeeze it. It is a tell, he knows, one he has never managed to break. Finally he looks at Mycroft, makes himself smile. “Sorry, My. I’m working on the dignified thing, no matter what this exchange may have implied.”

There is pain in Mycroft’s eyes, and Q hates that Sherlock put it there, hates that Sherlock always puts it there. He has long accepted that Sherlock would always be the one closer to Mycroft, by virtue of their respective ages, and with that came the acceptance that Sherlock was the one who could control Mycroft’s happiness, not Q. But to see the one person in the world with that power squander it, use it against Mycroft just because of some petty one-sided feud, burns.

“That was…unnecessary,” Mycroft says, sounding uncharacteristically discomfited.

“Not when the only person on Earth who has the power to hurt you is the only one you won’t stand up to.”

Sherlock and Mycroft both stiffen at that, though it is Mycroft who says, “That is hardly true.”

Abruptly, Q is exhausted. He technically had the day off but spent most of it monitoring 007’s progress in Indonesia. He only stopped monitoring when Bond decided it was a good idea to fuck the target’s favored prostitute. As a result of the work, he has been awake since approximately four, having caught five hours of sleep the night before.

So, instead of continuing this farce of them being one big happy family, he pushes his chair out and stands, grabbing his briefcase and his plate. “My apologies for the disruption,” he says, because he has manners, when he remembers them, and then he heads into the kitchen to deposit the plate in the dishwasher. He knows Mycroft would deal with it, but he has no urge to make even more work for his brother.

He hears Watson saying something in the dining room, and then Sherlock’s chair scraping as he stands and—presumably—storms out of the room to sulk, and he feels a momentary pang of guilt that they are all leaving Mycroft alone when he had put effort into the dinner. And it had even been less unpleasant than many the two of them spent together in silence. But he will only make things more uncomfortable for Mycroft by staying, so it’s best that he leaves. He knows Mycroft would never ask him to—Mycroft is endlessly polite and dedicated to the concept of family, so much so that he has sat through musicals with their parents despite his unending hatred of them—but he also knows that he is too tired to adequately hold his tongue around Sherlock, and he doesn’t want to have to make Mycroft choose between them. It will only make My uncomfortable, and in the end Q will lose.

Just because he has accepted the fact doesn’t make it particularly palatable, especially when Sherlock is an unrepentant berk, poking at unhealed bruises just to see what colors he can get them to turn.

Q has the brief, absurd thought of washing all of Mycroft’s dishes in the hopes it would turn his brain off for a little while, but he thinks Mycroft would have a conniption, so instead he just heads to the door.

Where, of course, Watson is standing, because nothing about this night could be easy.

Q gives him a look that he knows is tired, because this is Mycroft’s home and something about it always reduces his boundaries and makes him less able to hide, perhaps because he rarely has to hide so entirely in front of My alone. “What can I do for you, Dr. Watson?

Watson gives him his own tired look. “I just wanted to apologize for Sherlock back there.”

Of course he did. “The purpose of apologies is defeated when someone else does it, particularly when we are all aware that Sherlock would never apologize and mean it, at least to or for anyone other than you. And besides, I’m not the one who deserves an apology.”

Watson sighs. “He was just—”

“Yes,” Q says, and his voice is brightly sharp. “He was just. Do you know how long Sherlock has been making comments about Mycroft’s weight? Since he was eleven, I believe it was, and Mycroft was eighteen. I have no illusions about my ability to stop Sherlock’s addiction, or for that matter anyone else’s ability besides yours, but I will not stand for him encouraging someone else’s mental illness. Mycroft has never in his life been anything beyond moderately overweight, but I would rather my brother be three hundred pounds and alive than thin but dead, and so might Sherlock if he weren’t so fucking vain and spiteful.”

While Watson is still considering that—because apparently there is something to consider there, and Christ sometimes Q hates the lot of them—Q turns back towards the door and says, “I will see you again, Dr. Watson, eventually.”

He is almost out the door when Watson says, “Sherlock doesn’t want Mycroft dead.”

“No,” Q says without turning, “he just doesn’t care enough to know what might kill him.”

And then he walks out, closing the door firmly behind him. He needs some fucking sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep writing this at work instead of doing work.


	4. Chapter 4

“I follow it all the time,” R says, and with that right there and no other context, Q knows something is up, because she is possibly the only person at MI6 who spends more time there than him, and so there is no program or sport that she could conceivably follow in any way that she would quantify as ‘all the time’.

Lara scoffs as that, as though the thought of R dedicating a significant amount of time to anything other than work and stress relief sex wasn’t a horrifying thought. “Most of us do. I wouldn’t be surprised if Q doesn’t check Watson’s blog every once in a while, when he’s holed up in his office at all hours of the night, waiting for bloody 003 to finish whatever he’s doing. Did you know it took him four hours to find a flash drive last week? I thought I was going to expire from boredom listening to him poke through those filing cabinets.”

“Not the point,” Wahid interrupts, and none of them have noticed Q yet, clearly, which is good because he has no idea what his face is showing. Why the fuck are they talking about Watson? “What would the brass bring them in for? It’s not like we can’t handle murders, and there haven’t been any, besides.”

Sherlock is coming here, Q thinks with a level of horror he hadn’t thought possible for anything short of explosions in MI6 that are all his fault, and then Lara says, “I’m better they want to figure out who grabbed Q,” and Q just can’t. No. No, that is not happening.

So he stalks past the three of them, ignoring their startled greetings, and heads to his office. He just barely remembers to activate the anti-eavesdropping setup before picking up his phone.

“No,” he says when Mycroft picks up, and Mycroft doesn’t bother to pretend he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, instead only sighing.

“Difficult as you might find this to believe,” Mycroft tells him, “this didn’t come from me. There are suspicions of a mole, and those who would normally be used to investigate such a matter are all potential suspects. People with more pull than me suggested that he be used, and it would have been suspicious for me to attempt to dissuade them.”

Q scowls at the phone receiver, in lieu of Mycroft. “We made a deal.”

“And this in no way violates that deal.”

“It violates the  _spirit_.”

“Do you know what you looked like?” Mycroft demands, and for the first time in a long time Q can hear anger in his voice. “Drugged, bruised, panic in your eyes that you were not aware enough to hide? I would break that deal, and many others, to not have to see that again. I do not do take this lightly, and would do much more and much worse than bring in one of the best investigators in the world, if it would keep you safe.”

“I’m not a bloody child in need of your protection,” Q snaps.

Mycroft makes a noise more agitated than Q would have thought his throat was capable of producing. “This isn’t about your age. Please,” he says, and he sounds tired. “Please don’t fight me on this. It is done.”

Q hates how tired Mycroft sounds, Mycroft who has always been so steady, and so he says, “Alright.” He wants to tell Mycroft to get some sleep, but Mycroft doesn’t want to hear that from him. “Alright, My.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft says, and he sounds like himself again. “I will schedule another dinner for when we are both free.”

“Invite Anthea.”

“I will see what I can do.”

Q sighs, then heads back out to the main floor to find R. She’s checking the mission details for 009’s next mission, humming to herself as she sips on some tea. He taps on the desk, and she looks up on him.

“What can I do for you, Oh Benevolent Overlord Sir?”

He indicates the computer with his tea. “We have confirmation from Montenegro yet?”

R nods. “We have a location and tracking conformation from the ANB. Lara has the line with them if you want to speak to them directly.”

“Unnecessary. Just inform me if there is a problem. And send me the mission details for my review. You’re still running this, but I’ll keep an eye on it from my office.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And R? When Watson and Holmes arrive, bring them directly to my office. And neither you nor anyone else from Q branch are to speak to them until after I have talked to them.”

R’s eyebrows go up. “Sir?”

“I want to make a few things clear before they talk to anyone from Q branch.”

R nods. “Yes, sir.”

“I have some work to do, so I’ll be in my office, and I’m not to be disturbed before they arrive unless there’s an emergency.” With that, Q heads to his office, closing the door behind him and activating the walls’ shift to opacity. He keeps them translucent when he’s doing work that he’s willing to have disturbed, and all of Q branch knows at this point to leave him alone when his walls are opaque.

It’s the rest of MI6 that has a problem with that. Namely the Double-Os, and especially 007, who takes a demand for privacy as a challenge. It’s bloody annoying, and why he specifically made it clear to R. She’ll keep 007 out.

Instead of immediately starting work, though, Q takes a minute to put his head in his hands and try not to scream.

He doesn’t have the patience to deal with Sherlock twice in as many days, and Dr. Watson seems not to be the tempering influence Q had hoped for. He may keep Sherlock from drugs—occasionally—but he doesn’t seem to make him much less of a shit person.

A frustrating hour of trying to figure out why this one goddamn simulation keeps failing later, R knocks on his door, saying, “Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes for you, sir.”

Q takes a deep breath, closes out of his files, then presses the button to open the door, allowing the two of them in. Watson breathes a low, “Bloody—” before Q nods to R, who heads back to work.

Sherlock waltzes into the room, examining it with apparent interest, but Watson can’t seem to take his eyes off Q. Neither of them seem interested in closing the door, so Q presses the button to close the door and activates all of his privacy measures, before saying, “Sherlock, Dr. Watson.”

Watson gapes at him. “Tell me you’re joking.”

Q raises an eyebrow. “Have your names changed since yesterday?”

“That’s not—that’s not the  _problem_. You’re the Quartermaster of MI6? You’re a child.”

Q feels his face harden into something cool and stiff. “I can assure you that I am more than qualified for this job. Additionally, my age is classified, so you will not be sharing with anyone at MI6.”

Sherlock finally looks at him, saying, “Pretending to be an orphan, are we now?”

“My identity as a member of the Holmes family is also classified. You of all people know that being a Holmes only puts oneself, and all those around you, in danger.”

“So you’re not a Holmes anymore?” Watson asks.

Sherlock roll his eyes. “Don’t be absurd. He’ll almost be a Holmes.”

“Regardless,” Q says, “you will not discuss my identity with any member of MI6. As far as anybody here is concerned, this is the first time you are meeting me. I would tell you to limit the concern you express for me, but that has never been a problem.”

“Or what?” Sherlock asks, and his eyes are glittering brightly.

“I have no vested interest in Dr. Watson’s wellbeing,” Q informs him. “I have no desire to go after him, but if it’s a choice between my safety and his, I will choose mine.” He shrugs. “As a family we may lack in self-preservation tendencies, but you’ll find that, as an individual, I have a rather strong desire to live.”

“Are you threatening me?” Watson demands at the same time Sherlock says, “Being known as a Holmes would hardly kill you.”

“When I made this deal with Mycroft, you had just committed suicide and were discredited and reviled, having been driven to your death because of your family connection and your name. You may still be alive, but I find I don’t trust that circumstances have changed all that much otherwise.” He looks at Watson. “I have killed for Queen and country. I’m not sure why you think I wouldn’t do as much for my own life.”

Both Sherlock and Watson look appropriately unhappy—nearly as unhappy as Q feels having them here—so he settles back in his chair and says, “You’ve never cared for being my brother anyway, Sherlock, so this should be no hardship for you. Now I have no intention of getting in the way of your investigation, so stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours.”

Watson groans. “Christ, I need a vacation.” He looks at Sherlock, who’s back to examining the room like he’s going to discover the mysteries of the universe in it. Other than Q’s computer setup, there are virtually no personal touches in it, so he’s not particularly concerned about what Sherlock will deduce.

Finally, Sherlock says, “Dull,” and heads out of the room, Watson following after him with an aggrieved look on his face.

Q waits until they’re gone before closing his door and calling Mycroft.

Anthea is the one who picks up, saying, “Mr. Holmes is in a meeting. Do you need me to get him for you?”

Not having to say this to Mycroft is probably better for both of them. “Just let him know that I threatened Dr. Watson for in the event that he or Sherlock reveal my identity to anyone at MI6. I thought Mycroft would appreciate a warning for when Sherlock bursts in in an hour or so complaining about it.”

Anthea is silent for a moment, then asks, “Must you?”

“Apologies for making your life more difficult,” he tells her.

She laughs. “The unfortunate thing is that I believe you mean that.”

“I do. Your job is already hard enough without needing to deal with Sherlock. And besides, I like you far more than I like most people.”

“Thank you,” she says, sounding amused.

\--

M calls Q in an hour later, greeting Q with an apologetic look on his face and a thin manila envelope. Q drops down in the chair across from M’s desk, balancing his phone on one knee so he can watch 007’s movements as they talk, and opens the envelope.

“That’s just official documentation,” M says as Q does so. “I’ll be briefing you on it now.”

Q glances at the heading just long enough to see that it’s from above both of their pay-grades, then slides it back in the envelope with a disgusted, “Official documentation on paper?”

“Not all of the British Government is as technologically savvy as you.”

“There is technological savviness, and then there is the ability to write an email.” Q waves that away before they can go down that rabbit hole. He will never win. He has acknowledged that already. “Is this about Holmes and his pet doctor?”

Something between relief and discomfort crosses M’s face. “You met them.” Q doesn’t deign to respond. “Right. I know you don’t like dealing with outsiders, but this is coming from over my head. And frankly, I’m not overly upset about it. Running in-house investigations is always difficult, and this way we can focus our energy on figuring out who outside of MI6 was involved.”

Q adjusts his phone on his knee, glancing at it to see that 007 is still driving. “So he’s only involved to find out if there was an inside job?”

“Holmes is involved to find out who the mole is. Neither your picture nor any identifying characteristics are listed on the MI6 server, and, by your own request, you virtually never meet outsiders. The only people who can positively identify you as our quartermaster are members of MI6 or a very select few members of the Government.”

“And you’re sure it’s none of them who is the leak?”

“We’re investigating everybody below the Queen who is aware of your identity.”

Fantastic. Q sighs. “Is that all you called me here to tell me?”

M looks like he’s dreading what he has to say, which makes sense when he then says, “I expect you to work with Holmes and Watson as necessary.”

“No.”

“Q, this is an order. You don’t need to take time from the work that you’re doing, but you will need to give them access to Q-Branch.”

“I’m not going to make my people waste their time pandering to some sociopath’s delusions of grandeur.”

M’s eyebrows go up, and yes, okay, maybe that was a bit too aggressive, but he has no interest in Sherlock running roughshod over his people. Sherlock just rampages through spaces, doing damage and letting whoever is left clean up after him.

“You seem to be familiar with Mr. Holmes,” M says when Q doesn’t follow his statement up with some reassuring platitude or agreement.

Q digs his fingers into his leg. “I’ve read the domestic news in the past decade.”

M’s jaw visibly works, and then he snaps, “This is not up for debate, Quartermaster. One of your people may have been the one who gave you up. This investigation needs to happen, and he’s the one who’s been brought in to do it. My other option is assigning you around-the-clock guards until we figure this out. Which is something I’m tempted to do anyway, but am only holding off on because I’m afraid if I do it you’ll kill one of them.”

“I don’t like this.”

“I’m not telling you to. But I’m telling you to go along with it, anyway, because it’s your job.”

Fuck. Q stands, straightening his jumper hem. “As long as they don’t put any of our missions at risk, I won’t get in their way.”

“Q—”

“And I’ll cooperate.” The words grate coming out.

M nods. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit short, but working on it wasn't making it better.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is or where it's going. I'm just writing a bunch of crossover stories now, I guess. Timeline-wise, this is...somewhere. I don't know. I'm ignoring Spectre because I may or may not have actually seen it, and Sherlock is just kind of wherever. I won't have Mary because I don't want to.


End file.
